


You can't have everything

by Smalls



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:36:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smalls/pseuds/Smalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is arguably the smartest man who ever lived. So when he meets Moriarty on the roof of Bart's hospital, surely he can best the criminal. Surely he can make it off the roof with his and his friends' lives assured. Surely he can have his reputation restored. Surely he can have everything. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	You can't have everything

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first fic so please be gentle. I apologise for any grammatical/spelling errors. Enjoy!  
> *i don't own Sherlock Holmes*

Sherlock stared down at the body before him. The man that was once his greatest adversary now laid dead on a rooftop with a smug smile on his face. How anyone could die feeling smug was beyond Sherlock. He watched the madman, waiting for him to jump up and resume their conversation. Instead, James Moriarty remained dead. _I'm safe._ The thought was hesitant. He was afraid if he dared to think it, Moriarty would come back to prove him wrong.

"I'm safe," he whispered. When Moriarty remained limp on the roof, he spoke his second and most important thought. "John is safe." Sherlock sat down in relief. He wanted to weep. Sherlock was safe and John was safe. That was all that mattered. He glanced at the body. _Something doesn't feel right. He gave up too easily._ The detective studied the look on Moriarty's face. He thought about his last moments with the criminal.

_"I don't have to die," Sherlock realised. "None of them do." Moriarty had shook his head._

_"Oh, Sherlock, don't you know? You can't have everything." With those words, he killed himself with a shot in the head._

"John!" Quickly, he exited the roof and ran out hospital. He hailed the first cab he saw.

"Where to?" The cabbie asked.

"221 B Baker Street. I'll give you fifty quid if we have it in less than eight minutes." That must have been incentive enough, as they arrived in six. It still felt too long for Sherlock. He drummed his fingers anxiously against his thigh. Something wasn't sitting right with the genius. Maybe it was just his distrust for the dead man, but something felt off. Quickly, he pulled out his phone. His hands shook as he waited for the answer.

"Christ, Sherlock? I need to tell you-" The detective hung up before the DI could finish his sentence. _See, Lestrade is safe,_ he reassured himself. _In a few moments, you'll see Mrs. Hudson and John and everything will be fine._ He told himself that over and over again for the rest of the ride. As soon as the flat was in sight, he opened the door and threw the money at the driver. He fumbled with the key and threw open the door.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He yelled as he ran up the stairs. Sherlock wrenched open the door to his flat. In the sitting room was Mrs. Hudson. She was pale and trembling, but otherwise she seemed fine. Sherlock scanned the room, looking for John. He looked back at Mrs. Hudson and noticed she was holding a mobile in her hand. He studied her. _Hands shaking. Pale. Received upsetting news over the phone not long ago. Why is she here? Did she want comfort?_ He recalled his phone conversation with the DI. _He sounded tired. Said he need to tell me something._ Suddenly, fear gripped the heart Sherlock claimed he didn't have. Mrs. Hudson stood up and walked towards him.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said brokenly. Sherlock took a step back.

"No, no, no," he whispered desperately. He wished he could turn off his mind and not see the grief so evident on his landlady's face. He had to escape. Escape his mind, his flat, escape the pain filling his whole being until he felt he couldn't breathe. Sherlock turned and fled the flat.

"Sherlock!" He ignored his housekeeper's cries and kept running for what felt like hours. He thought that maybe if he kept running, he could outrun the truth. Sherlock didn't know where he was headed; he just need to get away. _No. No. No._ The chant ran through his head in an endless loop. Sherlock felt like he was drowning in grief. A sudden squeal of tires jerked him back into reality. Somehow he had wandered into the street. Sherlock focused on the black car. Mycroft climbed out of the vehicle and looked at Sherlock sympathetically.

"Get in the car, brother dear." Sherlock wanted to fight, to refuse, to scorn. He opened his mouth and suddenly realised how tired he felt. Wearily, the genius walked over to his brother and climbed in the car. The ride was thankfully silent. Sherlock didn't ask for a destination. He just sat on the black leather and stared mindlessly out the window. After a few minutes, the car came to stop. Mycroft's driver opened the door and Sherlock exited. He followed his brother numbly through the entrance of the building and the dimly lit halls. Mycroft paused outside one and held it open for Sherlock. Wordlessly, the detective entered the room and froze. He was an idiot for not realising where they were going earlier. He was in Bart's morgue. On a table, was a body covered by a sheet. A male body. Sherlock thought he was going to faint. Or be sick. Or both. He turned to his brother, trembling slightly.

"Please," he whimpered brokenly. "Can we leave?" All sympathy had left his brother's face.

"You have to identify the body." Sherlock shook his head.

"I can't." He started to walk past his brother. A swift slap to the face made him stop mid-step. Never in Sherlock's thirty-two years had his brother ever hit him. He stared at Mycroft, shocked.

"I warned you caring is not an advantage! That sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side! **This** ," he gestured to the body, "is what happens, Sherlock! Innocent people have suffered and for once you aren't running from this!" He shoved Sherlock towards the corpse. "Now go identify the damn body!" Shakily, Sherlock walked towards the body. He stood at the table and took a deep breath. Slowly he lift the sheet and froze when he saw the face. A face he had seen everyday for the past year. He had been shot in the head, likely a sniper based on the angle. He heard Moriarty's mocking words. _You can't have everything. You can't have everything. You can't have everything._ Sherlock dropped the sheet and stepped back. He felt lightheaded and briefly wondered if he was going to die. He looked at Mycroft.

"It's him. Can we go?" He begged. His brother looked at him and shook his head.

"Not yet."

"Please?"

"We have to discuss the funeral plans." Sherlock wanted to cover his ears and scream.

"Can't we do that somewhere else?" His brother studied him coldly, then his face softened slightly.

"We'll talk in the car." Sherlock practically sprinted to the car. He inhaled deeply once he was seated. "So how soon should we have it?" Mycroft asked as he examined a calendar.

"The sooner the better. When can you have it ready?" Sherlock watched anxiously as his brother thought.

"Three days?"

"Do it." His brother nodded.

"Should I handle all the details? You could plan John's -"

"No!" How dare his brother even suggest such a thing?! "You can handle everything." Mycroft nodded. The driver pulled up in front of Baker Street. Sherlock started to reach for the handle when Mycroft's voice stopped him.

"One more thing, brother dear. You'll be expected to attended and speak at the funeral." Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but Mycroft cut him off. "This is not debatable." Sherlock nodded and slid out of the car. Slowly, he unlocked the door and walked up the stairs. He looked around the flat brokenly. Everything reminded him of John. He saw him sitting in his chair, making tea in the kitchen, leaning against the window, laughing on the couch. Sherlock grabbed his violin and hurried to his room. He didn't come out until the funeral three days later.

***

It was a grey, foggy day as Sherlock walked slowly to the stand with his violin case in hand. _Seems appropriate considering the event._ Sherlock looked out at the crowd. So many people had shown up at the funeral today. Family, friends, acquaintances. The detective hadn't realised John knew so many people. _Had known,_ he corrected. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I, uh, I was expected to speak today. As many of you know, I am, er, was very close to John. He was my flat mate and my friend. My only friend actually." Sherlock felt his throat tighten with emotion. "I'm a high functioning sociopath, so I'm not very good at these things. So I decided to play instead of talk." Carefully, Sherlock opened his case and pulled out his violin. "This, uh, this is a piece I wrote for him." And with any more words, Sherlock lifted his violin and began to play. The genius poured his heart out with every note, losing himself in the melody and his grief.

After the last note, Sherlock lowered his bow slowly. Sudden applause jerked Sherlock back to reality. He glanced around, finding all the mourners clapping, sniffling, and crying. Someone announced the ceremony was over. In the commotion of everyone leaving, Sherlock managed to slip away unnoticed. Well, almost unnoticed.

"Sherlock!" He turned and saw Lestrade. He could tell the man had been crying, but, for once, he pretended not to notice. "That was really good, mate. I know that must have been hard consider how you and John were..." Sherlock's eyes narrowed as the detective inspector trailed off.

"Were what?" The DI cleared his throat awkwardly.

"So close." Even in his pain, Sherlock was no fool and he could hear the other implication.

"You too, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked in exasperation. "I thought you of all people would know better."

"I'm not an idiot, Sherlock."

"We weren't shagging or –"

"I know that. But you did love him." The grieving man froze.

"I most certainly do not love-"

"Look, I don't care about that bullshit you tell everyone about how you're a sociopath and you don't care about anyone and you don't have a heart. I saw the way you looked at him. That was love, plain and simple. You loved him, Sherlock."

"No, I don't! I don't know where you and everyone else got this stupid idea, but I don't love him! He's my friend and my flat mate, that's all!"

"Sherlock, listen to yourself! You can't even refer to him in past tense! Mrs. Hudson said you locked yourself in your room. Mycroft said you almost passed out when you had to identify him. This is past the grief of a friend. Sherlock, you loved John Watson. The sooner you admit, the better this will be for you and everyone else."

With that, the DI took his leave. Sherlock stared after him for a while. _I don't love him. We are just friends. We just work together. We just live together and solve crimes and occasionally, okay often, get into trouble . I'm just upset because my best friend is... my best friends is..._ Sherlock quickly ended that train of thought and choked back the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He hated this. This irrational pain that filled his chest whenever he thought of the doctor. Before, when he thought of John, his heart often got a strange feeling, but that had been different and...almost pleasant. This, however, just painful. He hoped this wouldn't remain, that he wouldn't be a bundle of idiot pain for the rest of his life. It was awful.

Sherlock began to walk towards the road, hoping to catch a cab, but after three steps he walked back towards the grave site. As expected, everyone else had left. Sherlock had wanted avoiding the grave, but he knew he would have to see it eventually. He stood at his grave for a moment, staring at the grey sky. After a few deep breaths, he looked at the grave stone and read the inscription. The words were simple, but fitting.

 **John Watson**  
**1974-2014**  
**"I was never bored"**

As Sherlock stared at the grave, his mind was filled with a million memories. He saw John leaning against the wall, panting after chasing a serial killer through London. He saw John snapping at Anderson when Anderson called him a freak. He saw John smiling at his deductions and calling him brilliant. He saw John laughing as Sherlock offended the customers at a restaurant in his over the top manner. He saw John examining the victims and forming his own theories, though they were often wrong. He saw John scolding him for being reckless while tending a wound gently. He saw John arguing with Sherlock over the importance of things like sleep or food. He saw John sacrificing himself at the pool incident with Moriarty. He saw John trying not to cry after he had nightmares and smiling gratefully when Sherlock played violin until he fell back asleep. Suddenly, Sherlock felt like he owed John words. One final goodbye.

"John, when I met you I told you everything about yourself. I divulged your personal life and I fully expected you to slap me and storm off. And instead, you smiled and told me I was clever. I told you all my annoying habits and quirks fully expecting you to call me a freak and leave feeling disturbed. And instead, you told me you would see me tomorrow to check out the flat. The next day, instead of showing you the flat, I took you to a crime scene and showed you a dead body. I fully expected you to yell that I was psychotic and that I would never see you again. And instead, by the end of the night, you helped me catch a serial killer. After that night, I let you into my life and you became my flatmate and, more importantly, my friend. We solved crimes, you blogged about them, and I ran dangerous experiments in the flat. Then you were kidnapped by a psychopath, who strapped a bomb to your chest. I expected, that if you made it out alive, you would leave because no friendship was worth this. Instead, you hugged me and promised me you were never leaving. And after that night, I let you into my heart and you became the only person I've ever loved." Sherlock hadn't realised he was crying until his vision blurred. He fell to his knees. "I think love you," he sobbed brokenly. "I loved you so much it hurts. I loved everything about you. I loved your laugh, your smile, the way you scowl at me when I won't eat, the way you tear up when the victim is a child. I loved you because you saved this broken man. And I'm so sorry that I couldn't save you."

Sherlock fell silent, too overwhelmed to speak. He jumped slightly when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Mycroft standing over him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his legs and sobbed into his waist. He hadn't been so vulnerable to his brother since he was a small boy. Mycroft stiffened for a moment, then began stroking his brother's hair soothingly. "He was right," he sobbed desperately. Mycroft didn't have to ask who.

"Right about what?"

"I can't have everything."

**Author's Note:**

> This is the song I imagined him playing at the funeral
> 
> https://youtu.be/Cl3lYeBbLQM
> 
> So yeah. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
